


Prometheus Unbound

by lynnenne



Series: The Insectverse [3]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-06
Updated: 2006-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnenne/pseuds/lynnenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Three of the "Insectverse" series. Wolfram & Hart continue their assault on Angel, using Connor as a weapon. The crisis leads Angel, Spike and Illyria to reevaluate themselves and their relationships with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prometheus Unbound

**Author's Note:**

> Part Three of the "Insectverse," a series of four fics that can be read separately or as a whole. Set post-"Not Fade Away." This part: Beta'd by Kita and Fodian, with help from Barb C. and Alizarin_NYC.

 

The creature’s skin was the color of vomit, its mouth purple and jagged with slime dripping from its fangs. Its jaws yawned wide enough to swallow a city block, face blotting out the sky. The citizens below ran blindly, knocking and pushing each other down in their panic to get away.

“Cool,” Connor remarked. “How much?”

“Eight ninety-five,” said the guy behind the counter, sucking back a blue Slurpee.

“For a comic book?” Connor flipped through the pages. On the next panel, the creature’s jaws chomped down on a BMW, swallowing a stock broker in the front seat.

“Collector’s edition,” comic book guy mumbled around his straw. “It’s a double-issue.”

“Fine,” Connor muttered, digging into his pockets. He took out a ten and slapped it on the counter. The clerk gave him his change in coins sticky with Slurpee juice. Connor made an “ew” face, shoved the coins in his pocket and wiped his hands on his jeans.

He walked out into the street with the comic rolled up under his arm. Headed for the coffee shop to grab a quick Danish. He needed to feed the rumble in his stomach before his first class—two hours was too long to go without a sugar rush. He liked Columbia. The campus wasn’t as green as Stanford, and he missed his friends; but Columbia was a great school and they had accepted all of his transfer credits.

As he turned the corner to the coffee shop, six demons dropped out of the sky and surrounded him. Their skin was the color of vomit, their mouths purple and jagged with slime dripping from their fangs. 

*

“Incoming!”

Spike was up on the roof of an old brick garage, watching a Ptero demon dive-bomb towards him like a Luftwaffe fighter. He readied his sword as the creature approached, swooping down on him from an impossibly steep angle. When it was almost on top of him he swung, catching the Ptero’s wing right at the juncture between shoulder and ribs, hacking the limb clean off. The wing thudded onto the tarred shingling, blood showering him from above. The body whirled sideways like a plane missing a propeller, careering into the pavement below. It skidded to a stop right in front of Angel, who finished the job by neatly separating the creature’s head from its body.

“You missed the head,” Angel yelled, the faintest hint of smugness in his voice.

Spike rolled his eyes. “I took him down, didn’t I? Did the hard part. Easy enough for you to finish him off once he’s on the ground.”

“Yeah, but now I’ve got blood on my shoes.”

“Serves you right for wearing Guccis on patrol.”

“Well, if you hadn’t…”

“Silence.” Illyria strode out of the shadows to stand next to Angel. “There are more approaching.” She turned towards the skies, where two more Pteros were bearing down on them.

Angel and Illyria stood in the street, hunter-still, waiting for the flying demons to swoop down on them. At the last moment, they both leapt up onto the roof of the garage, forcing the demons to change trajectory. The change in speed and angle made for an easy kill. Angel hacked off the head of one with his sword. Illyria grabbed the wing of hers; yanking it out of the air with such force that it was knocked unconscious. She strode over and ripped the Ptero’s head off with her hands.

“Well,” Spike muttered. “That works.”

“It is child’s play.” Illyria glared at him, unblinking. “A battle such as this is unworthy of the name. A mere annoyance, like swatting at flies.”

“Or a really big, well fed mosquito.” Angel looked forlornly at his shoes. “I’ll never get this blood out.”

Illyria jumped back down to the street, heading towards the Hyperion. Angel and Spike followed, Angel’s shoes squishing as he walked. Spike slapped Angel on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, Gramps. Just wring out your shoes when you get home and you’ll have breakfast for the morning.”

Angel’s face scrunched up as if he’d just swallowed cyanide. “Have you ever tasted Ptero blood? It’s what Sennix demons use to poison their victims in winter when their venom runs dry.”

“Yeah, but it only poisons humans, right? Couldn’t hurt a vamp, ’specially not one used to living on rat blood.”

“Fine. I’ll make you do a taste-test when we get home.”

Spike snorted. “As if you could make me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“In your dreams, rat-boy.”

“Spike…”

“Enough!” Illyria whirled on them, and they both stopped short, nearly crashing into each other. Her blue skin shimmered below the surface with a living rage. “Your senseless bickering provokes me. You will cease this instant.”

“Now look…” Angel took a step towards her, but Spike laid a hand on his arm to hold him back.

“What’s the problem, Blue?”

“Night after night of pointless battles against unworthy foes,” she fumed. “Trapped in this dimension with no army, no acolytes. With a squabbling pair of vampires who do nothing but argue and mate. How am I to endure this existence?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just spun on her heel and stalked towards the hotel, leaving them starting after her.

Spike’s hand dropped away from Angel’s arm. “Thought she was starting to adjust by now.”

“She was. At first. Before…” Angel looked at the ground.

“Before Wes died,” Spike finished.

Angel nodded. “He was the only guide she had. We can’t show her how to be human. How to live in this world. I think she’s going through some kind of existential crisis.”

“You should lend her your Sartre.”

“No, she’d just try to eat it.”

Spike laughed. “Did you just make a joke, Angelus?”

Angel turned towards Spike, the smirk on his face reminiscent of a time long ago, when camaraderie was less about sharing a mission and more about sharing blood and a bed. “I remember I used to laugh quite a bit, back in the day.”

“Yeah, but it was always _at_ me, not with me.”

Angel took hold of his jacket by the lapels. Backed him up slowly against the wall, the way he had once danced woman and men alike to their untimely ends. “Not my fault you were always so…” he leaned in and bit the side of Spike’s neck, hard, “amusing.”

Spike closed his eyes and breathed in. The old scents still lingered on Angel, even after a hundred years. Coal dust and kerosene, fires that lit the night sky.

“Sire,” he whispered, and Angel’s hands slipped under his coat, sliding up his chest. He rested his palms on the bony, muscular shoulders and Spike folded obligingly to his knees.

“Be a good boy, and I’ll let you lick the blood off my shoes after,” Angel smirked.

Spike leered up at him. “Whatever you say, rat-boy,” and ducked his head out of the way before Angel could cuff him. 

*

 Illyria stood on the roof of the Hyperion, staring up at the night sky. There was no moon tonight; and the stars, as usual, hid their faces behind the haze of city lights. How stupid of them, she thought, to let themselves be eclipsed by weaker beings.

Once she possessed the power of the stars. She could bend time and space around herself, and all who passed within her orbit were trapped by her merciless gravity. She was the center and the core. Illyria and her explosive light. Her nuclear rage.

In her hand she held a moth cage, retrieved from the top floor of the hotel, where she kept her collection of specimens. At length she opened the door to let the moths fly free, to observe how they coped in a world without a moon or stars to guide them.

They fluttered aimlessly for a few moments, scattering in an orb pattern, a cloud of comets circling a cold and distant sun. Then, one by one, they began to move towards the edge of the roof. Illyria followed them, peering over the edge, her eyes tracking them unblinkingly downwards. They fluttered down to just above street level, and then huddled crowd-like around a street lamp, never straying beyond the light’s dusty orange sphere of influence.

Illyria studied this phenomenon for moments, or perhaps hours, never moving. Watching as the artificial light shone—to the insects—as brightly as the moon.

Somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, in a nursery twenty thousand light-years high, new stars were being born.

Illyria descended from the roof to the top floor of the hotel, and smashed all her insect cages, one by one. 

*

“That was too easy.”

Angel had Spike pinned face-up on the mat, arms spread crucifix-style, one wrist in each of his fists.

“You think?” Spike flashed him a grin, the kind that had once charmed party invitations out of well bred society matrons. They were in the Hyperion’s basement, and they’d only been sparring for twenty minutes—barely enough time for Spike to get under Angel’s skin.

“Yeah, I think.” Angel watched his eyes sparkle like treasure. Shiny bits of blue found on a long-forgotten pathway. He smiled back.

“You know what I think?” Spike’s hips rolled up into Angel’s thigh. Angel let out a small huff of air.

“What?”

“I think someone’s forgotten all the lessons he taught me.” With a grunt, he heaved Angel off and rolled him face-down, pinning him with one arm behind his back.

Angel surrendered, laid his cheek to the mat, and closed his eyes. Spike leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“Who’s easy now?”

The hairs on the back of Angel’s neck shivered. He couldn’t see Spike’s face, but he knew there was a different smile on it now. The kind he once used to charm whores and virgins to their deaths.

Spike’s tongue traced a slow path behind Angel’s ear. His nose nuzzled into the hair at the base of his skull, lips locking onto the back of his neck. Spike let go of his pinned arm, but Angel kept it there. Reached for Spike’s fingers and grabbed hold of his hand.

Jesus. If anyone had told him six months ago the two of them would be holding hands, he would have thought they were under a stupidity spell.

Spike made to strip off Angel’s shirt, and Angel lifted his arms to oblige him. Strong, familiar fingers smoothed over his back, mapping out the terrain, marking territory. It had taken Spike so little time to re-learn his body. Maybe he’d never really forgotten.

“Christ, you’re always so tense.” Spike was straddling him now, kneading the muscles in his shoulders. “Haven’t had a crisis for months but you still don’t know how to relax.”

“Hmmmm,” Angel moaned. “Why don’t you show me?”

“Bloody right, I will,” and Angel could hear the leer in his voice. He chuckled.

Spike spread Angel’s arms out, the way Angel had spread his moments before. He lay flat on top of him, their bodies touching everywhere. Somehow, Spike was naked already. The feel of his skin was like a quilt covering him, satiny and cool. He pressed his forehead up against Angel’s shoulder, and Angel felt the ridges come up.

“This okay?” Spike asked him softly.

Angel nodded his assent, eyes still closed.

Spike bit (gently, how could weapons so sharp be so gentle?) and Angel inhaled. His hips worked themselves into the mattress beneath him, mind beginning to float. Blood and pain emptied out of him, past Spike’s soft lips, into his willing mouth.

Spike pulled his lips away. Shifted back into human face. “Good?” he asked. There was always that questioning in his voice, even after all these months (years, centuries).

“Hmmmm,” Angel moaned again. “Don’t stop.”

“Have to, love. Want you awake for the rest.” He slid his hands under Angel’s hips and lifted, pulling off Angel’s pants. Angel moved to get up, but Spike gently pushed him back down, his body covering him again, his cock pressing into one cheek of Angel’s ass. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “Just relax, would you? Let ol’ Spike take care of you.”

Spike’s mouth was at his shoulder again, worrying at the wound, then sliding in a long, slow path down the center of his back. Angel’s spine trembled like a living thing, heat sparking out from the small of his back to his palms, his groin. Spike’s hand caressed one round cheek, pushed Angel’s thighs apart. Then a wet tongue slid into the crevice between, warming his body like breath.

“Christ— Spike—”

Spike rumbled his response, sending vibrations skip-tripping up Angel’s cock. Spike’s fingers danced along Angel’s balls, caressing the soft skin, rolling them softly. Then the fingers slid inside him, replacing tongue, and Spike was opening him, laying him bare.

_Inside,_ Angel thought, his brain addled and flooded, _now, please,_ but his tongue was thick and his mouth opened and closed without making any sound. Instead he reached back, grasping at Spike’s hands. Spike let go and rolled Angel on one side, spooning up behind him.

“Ready?”

Angel nodded, eyes open.

Spike pushed into him gently (like fangs, like death) and Angel’s eyes shuddered closed. Long, slow thrusts into him; long, slow strokes of his cock. Spike’s hand was steady and sure, thrumming through him with every caress, fingers hitting every nerve. Angel’s body lifted and breathed fire. Lightening sparked all through him—behind his eyes, down his legs, through his belly. His whole body constricted, clamping down on the cock inside him. “Oh, fuck,” Spike gasped behind him. “So good, love. Jesus…”

When he came, Angel had to bite his lip, afraid that if he spoke he might repeat the love back to him.

For long minutes afterwards they were still, Spike’s face pressed up against his shoulder, fingers combing through his hair. Angel felt a gentle sleep stealing over him. So long, since they’d been gentle with each other. Not since that night with—

The memory of Connor’s soft, clean skin made Angel’s fingers clutch and curl. He bolted up as if from a nightmare. Pulled on his clothes in a hurry, Adam covering his shame.

“I should—go back out. On patrol,” he said.

A look skittered across Spike’s face, quick as a kicked dog. “Angel, you’ve been out every night for months. Give it a rest.”

Angel shook his head. “No rest for the wicked,” he said, and climbed heavily up the stairs. 

*

Hours later, Spike sat on the roof, legs folded underneath him, cigarette smoldering untouched between his fingers. He couldn’t taste the smoke anyway, what with the film of smog that clung to everything. Some nights, living in L.A. was like inhabiting a giant ashtray.

He’d come up here to clear his senses, but the taste of Angel’s blood still lingered on his tongue. It made his cheek twitch. Made him want to swallow the polluted air in great gulps until he couldn’t taste anything but ash. It made him want to go back for more.

More. He picked at his fingernails, worrying the word over and over like a smooth stone. Things had gotten… weird between them tonight. Things had gotten dangerously close to _more_. And then afterwards, Angel bolting like he’d been burned. Barely uttering two words to him.

Let alone three.

He mentally smacked himself in the face. _That_ was a path better left untrodden. Never worked out well for him. He sighed, threw his head backwards and smacked it deliberately against the roof’s hard tile.

“Do you wish me to abuse you in some manner?”

Spike gazed up at Illyria looming over him from his prone position. “Thanks ever so, but I’m quite capable of doing the job myself.”

“Why do you require such self-punishment?”

Spike pulled himself back up to sitting. Tapped another cigarette out of the pack and lit up. The last one had burned to ash without even touching his lips. “Just a mite frustrated, is all.”

“Is Angel not giving you satisfaction?”

Spike chuckled. “That’s never been our problem. Just—we’ve been doing this a long time. Gets old.”

Illyria nodded. “You require a new challenge.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

She walked over to the edge of the roof and gazed down into the dim street. “I understand this desire. This life provides no sustenance for me.” Spike watched her, her ice-blue stare fixed on something in the street below. “These lights,” she said, not turning around. “Artificial suns in the street. They steal their power from the earth.”

“Actually, I think it comes from the power plant.”

“Which draws power from a river in the desert. The Shell remembers.”

Spike narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah, I guess. What’s your point?”

“There are those in this dimension who have stolen the power of gods.” She turned towards him, and Spike thought he saw the glow of suns real and unreal in her eyes. It made his skin bristle and creep. “Perhaps they will make a worthy adversary.” 

*

“The Senior Partners?”

“Yeah. She was prattling on about wanting to raise holy hell against them. Something about stealing fire from the gods, or some such.”

Angel ran a hand over his face. They were downstairs in his old office, Wesley’s books still cluttering the shelves. Spike had his feet propped up on Angel’s desk, as usual. Angel shoved them off, as usual.

“Great. Just what I need, her kicking over that hornet’s nest.”

“Well, she does have a way with bugs.”

“Lindsey said the Senior Partners left me alive because they wanted me to suffer—to punish me. That’s why they attacked Connor’s family, killed his father. The last thing I need is to give them another excuse to go after him.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Look, I know you’d rather carve your sins in stone than lay them down for an hour? But you’re not responsible for what they did to him. Or what they might do.”

Angel shook his head. “I should have been more careful. Negotiated a better deal, or—”

“Angel, NBA players don’t have contracts as good as his. The kid’s got guaranteed protection from death and physical harm. No torture, no hell dimensions—”

“There are other ways to hurt people.” Angel picked up a knife that was laying on his desk. Ran his thumb along the back of the blade. “You and I know that better than anyone.”

Spike nodded, looking at the faint scars around his wrists.

“I’m not gonna let Illyria put him back in the line of fire.” Angel stood up and headed for the staircase. “I’ll go talk to her. See if I can knock the battle lust out of her.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Spike called over his shoulder. He stood up and made for the stash of scotch Angel kept hidden in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, but the phone rang before he could get there. Instead he sauntered out into the lobby.

“Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless get dates.”

“Spike? It’s Connor.”

“Hey, College Boy. Well, speaking of getting dates…” Spike’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and he imagined that Connor could see the wolf grin through the phone line. “How’s New York?”

“Um… Not so great right now. Can you get out here for a few days?”

Spike’s face sobered. “Hey, no worries. I’ll grab the old man, we’ll stow away on the first cargo plane outta here.”

“No. Just you. Don’t tell Angel.” 

*

When Angel came back downstairs, Spike had his duster on, a bag slung over his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Gotta leave town for a few,” he said, taking a puff.

“Oh.” The words _Something I said?_ nearly slipped out of Angel’s mouth, but thankfully he was too tongue-tied to speak.

“Got a call from a friend,” Spike went on.

“Oh,” Angel repeated. Spike had friends?

“Not _her,_” Spike added, “so don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I’m not—twisting,” Angel said, but he distinctly felt as if he was. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Anything I can help with?”

“No, just—someone who needs a friend, is all.” Spike took another drag. “You gonna be all right here with the ice queen?”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “She… she’s blustering, but I don’t think she’s planning anything yet. I mean, she doesn’t even know where to start.”

“Probably start with those books in your office. If you catch her researching wolves and rams on the Internet, just hide the laptop under your bed. She’ll never look for it there.”

Angel gave a faint grin, the kind you might see at a funeral. “Right. So…” He swallowed. His throat felt dry. “You gonna be away long?”

“Don’t rightly know. Could be.” Spike looked up at him. “If you think I should stay…”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “We’ll be fine.”

Spike threw his cigarette butt on the marble floor. “Good,” he said.

“Right,” Angel nodded. “So…”

“So,” Spike shrugged. “Guess I’ll be off, then.”

“Okay.” Angel nodded again. “See you.”

Spike loped towards the door without so much as a backward glance. Angel’s feet stayed fixed to the floor. He watched Spike’s bag brush against the glass of the lobby door, watched the door swing five, six times after Spike had gone.

He looked down and noticed the cigarette butt on the floor, still smoldering. Angel stepped on it carefully. He didn’t want it to leave a mark. 

*

Manhattan stretched towards the night sky as if by divine right. Its lights climbed the city in glittering rungs, a ladder to heaven bent on usurping the stars. Spike felt dizzy from the height of it, from the rarity of unneeded air, scented with twenty-dollar whores and twenty thousand dollar perfume; silk suits and stray cats.

He found Connor’s flat in Morningside Heights, near the university. Connor met him at the door, ushered him into a studio loft on the sixth floor. Wide open, with a nice view of the—building across the street. Still…

“Pretty swanky digs for a college kid.”

Connor smiled at him, a smile that spread through Spike’s body like heat, from his belly to his fingers.

“It’s my uncle’s. He owns some property in town.”

“Good to have connections.” The corner of Spike’s mouth quirked up, and Connor’s head dipped towards the floor. There was a faint bruise along one cheek. He was still smiling.

Spike couldn’t help it. He reached out and laid his hand along Connor’s cheek, ran his thumb along the boy’s lower lip. Pink like cotton candy. Like the carousels at Coney Island.

“So, um…” Connor started. “The reason I… There’s some stuff going on…”

Spike took a step closer, moving his hand around to the back of Connor’s neck. Leaned in and caught his lips in a deep, slow kiss. Christ, it was better than anything he remembered. Silk and soft, tender and potent all at once. Connor’s breathing sped up, his heartbeat pattered like summer rain.

Connor pulled away from the kiss, but kept his eyes on Spike’s mouth.

“I didn’t call you all the way across the country for this,” he breathed. “We need to talk.”

“Later,” Spike rumbled, and tugged him by his belt over to the bed.

Connor tumbled beneath him, falling like feathers, landing like smiles. He smelled of animal skins and old bones, things tough and hard; yet he was everywhere valiant and vulnerable. Wide open eyes, wide open legs. He felt like family, and when Spike sank into him, it was like coming home—to a place he knew somehow had been waiting for him, for more than a hundred years. 

*

Illyria conducted her search the way she had seen Angel and Spike do: she “banged heads” until she obtained the information she required. Such tactics proved pleasingly effective in this dimension. The city was rife with cowardly “low lifes,” and they were only too eager to sacrifice their comrades to spare their own pitiful existence.

She had learned much about the secrets of Wolfram &amp; Hart: Their ten-thousand-year climb from rudderless beasts to builders of civilizations. How, like Prometheus, they had stolen power from the gods and given it to man, in exchange for help driving her kind out of this dimension. Only in this version of the legend, it was the gods who had been tied to the underside of a cliff, doomed to eternal torment in the recesses of the Deeper Well. She learned about the Senior Partners’ followers and minions, how with the complicity of humans they had forged fire into bronze, iron, weapons of war; silicon, steel, plutonium—until finally they had harnessed the power of the sun. But none of her sources had revealed the secrets of how to defeat them.

For that, she would need what humans called “inside information.” Her informants had told her that there was one in this dimension who may possess such knowledge—one who was once a child of the Senior Partners.

Illyria broke into Eve’s apartment in the dead of night, only to find her wide awake, standing in the middle of the room.

“Hey there.” Eve smiled at her. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.” 

*

“So, these demons just attacked you in broad daylight? Walking down the street?” Spike was leaning back against the wall, surrounded by pillows. Connor’s bed didn’t have a headboard.

“Yeah, they shoved this, like, bag or something over my head and tried to drag me into this van.” Connor was sprawled out over the bed, loose-limbed and naked, his head down by Spike’s feet. At the mental image of Connor in a hood, Spike’s cock gave a little jump.

“I fought them off,” Connor continued. “Killed them all except the last one. I pounded the shit out of him until he told me who sent them.”

“Lemme guess.” Spike ran a finger up Connor’s leg. “Wolfram &amp; Hart.”

Connor nodded. “I told them to leave my family alone, but the demon said it was me they wanted this time. When I asked him why, he—sort of died.” He grinned, sheepish. “I may have pounded him a little too hard.”

“Well, they obviously want you alive, else they wouldn’t have tried to drag you off like that. Not like the evil empire to arrange a kidnapping.”

“Unless they want to use me as ransom—”

“Against Angel,” Spike finished. “So how come you didn’t want me telling him about this?”

Connor sighed. “If he knows I’m in danger, he’ll make some devil’s bargain with them to protect me. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.” In Connor’s eyes, Spike could almost read the names of the dead.

Spike nodded. “Yeah, the old man does need protecting from himself, sometimes.”

“Good thing he has you to look out for him.” Connor sat up. “So. What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”

Spike shifted on the bed. Shrugged. “Um… same as usual, I guess. We fight, we shag. We fight some more. You know. Family stuff.”

“Huh.” Connor looked at him (through him) the way Drusilla had the night he was turned. “You know, I saw the way he was with you. That night the three of us were together? And it was more than just some fucked up vampire family dynamic.”

Spike took Connor’s hand in his. “Think it was someone else he was besotted with that night. You… make it easy for us to love you. Loving each other…” He shook his head.

Connor sat back against the pillows, but kept Spike’s hand in his. “You’re both retarded.”

Spike grinned. “S’pose we are at that.” He turned towards Connor. “Angel more than me, mind.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. You know someday, one of you is gonna end up dust, and the other one’ll be left standing in a closet holding a shirt up to his nose, going ‘I swear, Jack, I swear!’ ” The melodramatic pitch of Connor’s voice made Spike laugh out loud. He shoved against Connor with his shoulder.

“Yeah. Can just see Angel crying over my coat. Don’t think he’s even seen _Brokeback Mountain_. Bugger never has any fun.” He looked out the window, to where the sky was beginning to darken again. “Speaking of fun… should hit the streets soon. Find you someplace to hide out. Odds are Wolfram &amp; Hart know where you live.”

“We need protection for my mom and sister, too,” Connor said. “They’re living out in Queens, with my grandparents.”

“I’ll make some calls,” Spike said.

Connor crawled out of bed, pulled on his clothes. “Then we can start banging some heads. Find out why they’re after me.”

Spike's eyes twinkled in anticipation. “It’s a date, then.” 

*

Angel had followed Illyria as far as the nest of K’tu Tung demons, but got sidetracked by a vamp attack on an unsuspecting couple. By the time he staked the vamps and gave the woman back her purse, Illyria had gone. She left no scent and made no sound—like Spike had done, during his ghostly tenure. As if she belonged to some parallel world, slipping in and out of this one through a hidden rip between dimensions.

Angel dusted off his clothes and headed back to the hotel. He’d been lucky so far. Illyria hadn’t yet uncovered anything useful. But she was getting close, he could feel it. And he couldn’t wait around for her to make a move against Wolfram &amp; Hart.

As soon as she came back, he was gonna throw her in the basement cage and take away her Gameboy.

He pushed through the lobby doors, the old hotel creaking in his ears. There were no messages on the phone machine. He picked up the receiver, dialed Connor’s number. _You have a standing invitation to come stay with me anytime._ The memory of his son’s voice felt warm in his ears.

It rang seven, eight times. No answer.

He hung up gently, walked over to the couch in the center of the lobby. His footsteps on the marble floor echoed like falling stones. The roof arched away from him, columns unyielding and still, the walls voiceless. He sat, closed his eyes, and listened to the silence.

There was not even the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. 

*

“Well, that was a bust.” Connor unloaded his backpack onto the floor of his new hide-out. Twinkies, juice-packs, foods wrapped in plastic. Some blood for Spike.

“I dunno,” Spike said, looking around their new digs. “We found this place, at least. Bit cramped,” he said, ducking under a beam where the ceiling sloped towards the wall. “But it’s out of the way, and a bitch to get in.”

Connor pulled out an egg-salad sandwich that had escaped its wrapping, oozing its contents over his hand. He made a face, then licked away the mayonnaise. “I just wish we’d gotten some better information. We’re in, like, the center of the universe, here. And nobody’s got connections to the big evil? No one even seems to know where their offices are.”

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong places.” Spike unrolled a sponge mattress they’d brought with them from Connor’s apartment. “Town like this, evil’s walking around in leather loafers. Sewers and demon dives probably not their regular haunts, you know?” He sat on the mattress, watching Connor’s lips lick around the sandwich. “Tomorrow night we’ll head downtown, check out the fancy restaurants. Maybe some offices. Folks like these probably work late hours.”

Connor swallowed the last of his egg salad. His eyes flicked over Spike’s duster and he grinned. “We’ll have to steal some better clothes.”

Spike laughed. “Yeah. Haven’t worn a tie since 1965. Be fun, dressing up like lawyers in love.”

Connor crawled over to Spike, pushed him gently onto his back. His smile was playful and gleaming. “Well,” he said, nimble fingers working Spike’s belt. “Guess we have a few hours to kill, huh?”

Connor’s mouth came down on his, softly at first, then in a way that made sparks flash behind his eyes. The hands worked Spike’s jeans, yanking them down hard over his hips, making him gasp with the sudden movement. Spike shuddered as a determined hand slid around his cock, working it fast and sure, moving down to cup his balls with long fingers.

A second later, the room shimmered and twisted out of shape, scattering his senses. Lightening struck, and it was too fast and too painful to be just sex. For a horrifying moment, Spike thought the Initiative had returned to shove the chip back in his head. Then his whole world went dark. 

*

The creak of the hotel doors swinging open sounded like a siren in Angel’s ears. He stood, expecting a fight with Illyria, but was confronted by another old enemy. One he could smell, this time—whiskey and desert dust.

“Well.” Angel folded his arms. “If it isn’t the dead man walking.”

Lindsey’s grin was small and sharp-toothed, a cheetah licking its jaws. “Pot calling the kettle, if you ask me.” He came down the stairs, hair flopping into his eyes as he walked. “Hear you’ve been having some trouble with the blue wonder.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Angel took a step towards him. “That why you’re here? Gonna warn us to back off, or your bosses will release the hounds?”

“You’re about three plays behind the action, Angel. I’m here to give you the color commentary.”

He could feel his back stiffening, feel a portent creeping up his spine. “Why? What’s happening?”

“Senior Partners gave you something, right before the battle. And now it’s time for them to take it back.”

“Nothing I have belongs to them.”

Lindsey chuckled, low and smug. It made Angel want to punch him. “Didn’t you ever wonder why they didn’t kill you that night?” he asked. “Finish you off, so they wouldn’t have to deal with you and your mission anymore?”

Angel’s brows drew together. “You said they wanted me to suffer. That’s why they went after Connor’s family. They’re using him to punish me.”

“That’s one reason. They are sort of sadistic that way.” He pointed at Angel’s chest, to where the mark of a secret society itched against his shirt. “But it has more to do with that.”

Angel rubbed the brand through soft cotton. “The Black Thorn?”

“They need you to rebuild it.”

Angel laughed, sharp like nettles. “Yeah, right. As if I’m gonna—”

“The Circle of the Black Thorn is a closed society,” Lindsey cut in. “Only other members can induct new ones into the group. You and me, the rest of your team—we killed all of ’em that night. That makes you the last surviving member.”

Angel blinked. “You’re saying the Senior Partners need me to rebuild their power base on Earth?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They’re recruiting a new member for you to initiate right now.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “So, I give all this power to some evil scumbag, and Wolfram &amp; Hart agrees to leave my son alone?”

Lindsey’s grin was like a punchline. “No. I’m saying you initiate this—evil scumbag—and you get your son back.”

Angel knocked Lindsey to the floor like an earthquake, hand tight around his neck. “What do you mean, I get him _back_?”

“Wolfram &amp; Hart kidnapped him,” Lindsey gritted out. “Whisked him off to a holding dimension, one you’ll never find. And he’s gonna stay there till he’s old and gray, unless you do what they want.”

Angel slammed Lindsey’s head back against the marble floor. “Why should I believe you?”

The phone rang. Angel didn’t even hear it, until a familiar English accent came over the answering machine.

“Angel? I’m in New York. Think you’d better get out here.” 

*

Spike paced back and forth at the airport gate. The sun was nearly up, and if Angel didn’t get off the tarmac soon they’d have to box him and send him down the baggage carousel. The old man had hired a private jet to fly them out from L.A. God forbid he fly cargo like every other vamp.

When he finally charged through the gates, Spike felt as if he were caught in a bull ring without benefit of a matador’s pike.

“You get the car?” Angel barreled past him, not looking at him, not stopping. Illyria followed, wearing Fred’s face and clothes.

“Yeah, the driver’s waiting for us out front.”

“Good. Illyria, I want you to get a cab, head for Wall Street and bring this wannabe Black Thorn member to Connor’s apartment. Here’s the address.” He handed her a card without stopping.

Illyria flashed her widest Fred-smile at him. “Okee dokee,” she said, and clacked away on high heels towards the taxi stand. Angel headed in the other direction, stampeding towards the parking lot. Spike had to run to catch up.

“What happened?” Angel hurled the words over his shoulder like a javelin.

“Space shifters. Materialized right in the middle of the room. We didn’t even have time to stand up before they zapped us. When I woke up Connor was gone.”

“And the reason you _needed_ to stand up was because you were too busy _screwing_ to fight them off. I can smell him all over you.” They tramped past the arrivals gates, past the early morning vendors setting up their stalls. Bloody Newark, went on for fucking ever. “You _knew_ Wolfram &amp; Hart had tried to kidnap him once already,” Angel went on. “You should have been out looking for a safe-house.”

“We were _in_ the safe house when they found us. They must have followed us there.”

“So you let yourself be followed. Even better! And instead of standing guard, you were busy lounging around in bed with the person you were supposed to be protecting. What the hell were you thinking, Spike? Oh, wait—you _don’t_ think, unless it’s with your dick!”

Spike’s face bristled like straw. “You’re one to talk. Fine for you to tap my arse whenever you fancy, but lemme get a leg over and you go all caveman on me. ’M not your property, Angelus.”

“If you were, I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near my son.”

“I didn’t go chasing after him, you know. He called me for help.”

“Well, he should have called me. _I_ wouldn’t have let this happen.”

Spike snorted. “Right, ’cause you’d never _touch_ the boy.”

Angel stopped, and Spike rammed right into the solid wall of his back. The old man whirled and punched him square in the face. Spike flew back, tumbling to the hard floor, narrowly missing an elderly couple with suitcases.

Spike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can we save this happy reunion for later?” He leapt to his feet, brushed off his duster. “This place is crawling with security guards, and you’re gonna bring them down on our heads.”

Angel turned away and kept walking. “We need to find out where they’re holding him.”

“They’re space shifters, Angel.” They reached the sliding doors, which opened in Angel’s path like trees bending in a hurricane. “They can travel anywhere in the universe. The boy could be on Mars by now.” They approached the car, where the driver stood waiting with the door open. Angel hurled Spike into the back seat, and he crawled under the blanket that lay waiting for them.

“Then buckle up your space suit,” Angel hissed as the car sped away from the curb. 

*

When Winifred Burkle had lived, she had seen a television commercial in which a bull strode through the New York Stock Exchange, greeted by the money traders as a conquering god. Illyria strode through the trading floors as if she had just ripped the brass ring from the animal’s nose. Foolish, she thought, looking on the soft-bellied men who worshipped false idols. Soon the very walls of these corridors would bend before her.

She tracked Eve to an expansive corner office, with windows wider than Angel’s had been at Wolfram &amp; Hart. Behind a large oak desk sat a jelly-faced man with thinning hair. He looked over to Eve, who was sitting on the couch, wearing a skirt made from the hides of dead animals.

“Is this her?” the jelly man asked Eve. “The…” he hid his mouth behind his hand, and spoke in a whisper which Illyria could hear perfectly. “The sacrifice?”

Illyria, still wearing Fred’s face, strode around to the back of the man’s chair, grabbed his necktie and lifted him up off the ground.

“You will come with me.” 

*

Angel was on the phone with one of his contacts when Illyria returned with the stock broker. She shoved him through the door, and he nearly stumbled face-first onto the hardwood floor. Behind Illyria, Eve sauntered in as if she were just an old friend coming over for tea.

“Hello, Angel. Nice to see you again.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Angel demanded.

“She has agreed to help us defeat the Senior Partners,” Illyria replied.

“Defeat?” Stock broker guy looked around the room, at each of them in turn. “I thought this was an initiation ceremony.” Everyone ignored him.

“Where’s your better half?” Eve asked.

“Spike’s in the basement, blocking off sewer access.” Angel stood up and strode over to Eve, thinking about how thin her neck was, how easily it would snap. “What do you know?”

“I know that as long as Connor is alive, Wolfram &amp; Hart will keep using him against you. And that even if you do this, they may not let him go.”

“And you just wanna help because you’re such a good person.”

“No. I want to help because the Senior Partners have something I want. And you can help me get it back.”

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. “Lindsey,” he said.

“Having a dead boyfriend really sucks, Angel. You should know that.”

“Um, excuse me.” The would-be initiate held up a pudgy finger. “But this isn’t—”

“Shut up,” Angel and Eve snapped in unison.

“So, I defeat the Senior Partners, rescue my son and bring your dead cowboy back to living color.” Angel considered her for a moment, then nodded. “Tell me how, and I’ll get it done.”

“No, you won’t.” Eve looked over to Illyria. “But she can. If she can get to the home office.”

Angel felt the cords in his neck straining—steel cables about to snap. “I tried that once before. Turned out it was a round trip.”

“It is. For lower beings like us. The Senior Partners are on a different plane of existence—no human or demon can go there. Only a god can enter their domain.”

Illyria raised her chin. “It is offensive. Once they would have fallen to their knees before me. And now I must crouch to enter their temple.”

“Yeah, well, just hold your nose while you’re slouching towards Bethlehem,” Angel said. “So how do we get her there?”

“You drank from Hamilton, right?” Eve asked. “The night you killed him?” Angel nodded. “Then there should be enough of his power left in you to open a portal.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Stock market guy pushed his way into the middle of the room. “The only one going anywhere here is—”

Angel turned back to Eve. “Are we gonna need the evil scumbag for this?”

Eve shook her head. “No. Illyria brought him as cover, in case Wolfram &amp; Hart were watching her.”

“Good.” Angel reached out, grabbed the man’s head and snapped his neck.

Spike walked through the door just as the body slumped to the floor. “Well. I see the research has started,” he drawled. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Angel turned his back on him, but he knew Spike could hear the fangs. “We form a circle.” 

*

They gathered with the blinds down, candles lit for Eve’s benefit. Spike stood shirtless in the center of the room, the others standing around him.

“Wanna tell me why we’re doing this?” He eyed Angel as if he were about to stick him with a pitchfork.

“Later.” Angel hauled the dead stock broker up to Spike’s face. “Drink,” he ordered.

Spike curled his lip at him. “What the hell for?”

“Because he’s the sacrifice, and because I said so. Now just fucking drink!”

Spike snarled, but sank his teeth into the dead man’s neck. He tasted foul, like beef left out in the sun. When he finished, Angel dragged the body outside the circle and let it drop. Then he turned back, approached Spike with his hand held out, and pressed the brand of the Black Thorn into his chest.

“The circle entwined,” Angel rumbled, leaving the thorns sizzle a little longer than needed. Spike bit his lip.

“Embrace this worthy son,” Eve and Illyria intoned.

“The thorn draws blood,” Angel chanted.

“The thorn is the power, and the power is absolute,” came the reply.

Spike expected lightning to start flashing, but everything remained quiet.

“So, what now?”

“Now we open a door to the Senior Partners’ dimension.” Eve placed an ornamented ceramic bowl in the center of the room and held up a knife with a curved blade. Angel reached his arm out over the bowl, and Eve made a long slice along his forearm, letting the blood drip. There was a noise—far off in the distance, at first, then growing louder—and a wind began to howl inside the room.

“By the blood of your liaison,” Eve yelled over the din. “By the child of the Senior Partners, we ask to be summoned home, to the domain of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart!”

There was a crash of lightning, and a portal opened in the middle of the room. Angel picked up his sword, stepped through it and—stepped back into the room, as if he’d been spun around and spit back out again.

“What happened?” Spike asked.

Eve rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I told him would happen.”

“It’s my son.” Angel glared at her. “I have to try.”

“You can try all you want, but you’re never getting in.” She turned to Illyria. “It has to be her.”

Illyria scowled at Angel. “Arrogant,” she mumbled as she passed.

She approached the whirling opening as if she expected it to tremble before her. Then she crouched through it and was gone. 

*

On the other side, there was a blinding light, white like the birth of the universe. Illyria had been present at many such births, and remembered. There was no sky, no floor, no ceiling. Only white, and an ancient orange light in the center, leaping like flame.

Illyria approached the light, reached in and touched it. It felt a part of her, like a hand. Like a weapon.

She heard them before she saw them—the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. They encircled her, spoke to her inside her mind.

_Your time has passed, Old One. Leave us, and we will not destroy you._

Illyria watched as they shimmered out of the whiteness, taking form. She looked at them, one by one. _You have stolen what belongs to me. Chained me to your earth. I will end my enslavement and reclaim this fire._

They leapt upon her all at once—horns, claws, teeth, devouring her flesh like vultures. Her hands reached out, snapping the Hart’s horns, breaking the Ram’s hoofs, yanking out the Wolf’s teeth.

_Do you think me so contaminated by humanity that you can feast upon me?_

She reached into the ancient light and it molded to her human form, scorching the shell away like a withered skin. Freed from her prison at last, Illyria hurled herself at the beasts with the power of an exploding sun. 

*

In Connor’s apartment, the whirlwind roared, giving no sign of the battle on the other side.

“What do we do now?” Spike asked.

“We wait,” Eve said. “She’ll either come back or she’ll be destroyed.”

The gale blew, and the light spun and the noise howled. Minutes passed, and still no sign. Angel stood facing the portal, sword at the ready, a crouching beast laying in wait.

Finally, there was a crash of lightning and the portal disappeared. In its place, there was a body lying curled up in the center of the room.

“Connor!” Angel’s sword clattered to the floor and he gathered his son up in his arms. Spike stood off at a distance, watching. He didn’t need to ask—he could hear the boy’s heartbeat.

He sighed, relieved. “Guess she did it,” he said to Eve. He looked at the empty air, where the vortex had been. There was nothing anymore except stillness and quiet.

“How’s Blue supposed to get back?”

“Illyria will not return to your dimension,” Eve intoned, and her voice echoed like a chorus. Spike turned to look at her, and her eyes were bright with a huge orange glow.

“Illyria?” he questioned.

“I have defeated the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart,” the voice-in-Eve said. “Their power has been returned to its rightful owner.”

Angel looked up at her, still holding his son’s slumped body in his arms. “Connor’s safe?”

“Your son is of no consequence. The Black Thorn is irrelevant. Illyria has many acolytes in many dimensions. They have been summoned to me. Soon my armies will outnumber the stars.”

Then Eve’s eyes went black, and she collapsed to the floor unconscious. 

*

 Spike took the stock broker down to the basement, unblocked the sewer and dragged the body as far away as he could from Connor’s building. After about half a mile, he reached an opening where rainwater ran through a culvert below the sewer. He dumped the body through the opening and watched the running water carry it away, down towards the river.

When he came back upstairs, Eve was curled up on the worn sofa, asleep. Angel sat in a chair next to Connor’s bed. His face as he watched the boy sleep was like the Magi. Like a father.

Spike pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the bed and sat. Scratched the brand on his chest. “Wanna tell me what that Black Circle bugaboo was all about?” he asked quietly.

Angel never took his eyes off the sleeping boy’s face. “According to Lindsey, only members of the Black Thorn can induct other members. I’m—I mean, I _was_—the last surviving member. The Senior Partners needed me to rebuild their power base. That’s why they kidnapped Connor.”

“To force you into making more like you.” Spike eyed him, brows drawn together. “Doesn’t explain why you picked me for the honor, instead of the money man.”

“I needed someone who was on my side,” Angel said, brushing Connor’s hair away from his forehead. “There was a good chance Illyria might lose and I’d end up dead. If that happened…” He looked up, finally, and Spike could see his eyes were wet. “I couldn’t let him spend the rest of his life trapped in some—” He broke off. “You needed a bargaining chip. Something you could negotiate with, to get him out of there.”

Spike’s face softened at the look in Angel’s eyes. “So… even though I let him get taken, you’d still trust me to get him back?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “I know you’d do whatever it takes. To protect him.”

Spike gave a small smile. “Till the end of the world,” he whispered. “Even if that happens to be tonight.”

Angel shook his head. “It won’t be tonight. It’ll take some time for Illyria to rebuild her armies. Be a while yet before we have to worry about her.”

“You knew,” Spike said softly. “About Illyria. You knew she wouldn’t be coming back.”

Angel looked back down at Connor’s face. “Seemed a pretty safe bet,” he whispered.

“Hell of a risk you’re running.”

“He’s my son, Spike.”

Spike nodded. “So, now we wait for the fire and brimstone.”

“Same old, same old. We’ll keep fighting, just like we always have.” He ran his fingers through Connor’s hair. It was dull and floppy, like a little boy after playtime. “There are some things in this world stronger than fire.” 

*

When the sun went down, there was a knock on Connor’s door. Eve jumped awake at the sound. She ran to answer it and was not disappointed.

She threw herself into Lindsey’s arms, sobbing into his neck. Angel eyed them like a pair of vipers.

“I didn’t know if she’d let you go,” Eve sniffled.

“She’s got her own people now,” Lindsey said. “Said the old guard couldn’t be trusted. Kind of like firing all the staff after an election.”

“Or a coup,” Spike said from his chair by the bed.

Eve ran her hands over Lindsey’s chest. “You’re warm,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Alive and kicking.” Lindsey smiled at her.

“So.” Angel growled. “Guess you two will be moving on now?”

Eve looked towards him. “Thank you, Angel.”

He folded his arms. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you anyway.” She gathered up her coat and purse, turned towards Lindsey and took his hand, flashing a huge grin at him. “Come on,” she said as the door closed behind them. “Let’s go find a hotel.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “There’s a brain picture I coulda done without.”

Angel chuckled. Connor stirred in his bed, fists reaching up to rub his eyes.

“Sun’s down,” Spike said, standing up and reaching for his coat. “I’m gonna head out for a smoke.”

Angel just nodded, eyes on the boy in the rumpled bed. He didn’t even hear the door close.

Connor sat up in bed and grinned at Angel, looking like a kid who’d just fallen off his skateboard.

“I told Spike not to call you,” he said.

“Yeah, well he never listens to me, either.” Angel wanted to hold his son’s hand, but he still looked so fragile, he was afraid Connor might break. “You okay?”

“Yeah. They kept me drugged the whole time. Think they were afraid of my Spidey strength. I don’t really remember anything.” He looked at Angel. “What did they want, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t be coming back. We put them out of business.”

“Wolfram &amp; Hart?”

Angel nodded.

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you manage that?”

“All that matters is that you’re safe now,” Angel replied. “They won’t come after you again.”

Connor’s head flopped back against the pillows. “I knew you’d do this,” he said. “You made some devil’s bargain to get me out of there, didn’t you?” Angel didn’t answer. “This is why I didn’t want you involved. I mean, not that I don’t appreciate you coming to my rescue and all, but I hate to see you do something you might regret.”

“I don’t regret anything.” Angel’s voice was solid like the earth. “I’d do it a thousand times over to keep you safe. And so would Spike.”

“Where is Spike?”

“He, um—went out for a smoke.” Angel shifted in his seat. “Connor, about that—you and Spike—do you think it’s the best thing—I mean—maybe you shouldn’t, um—see him, anymore?”

Connor cracked a huge grin. “What, you’re not gonna _order_ me to stop seeing him? That’s a switch.”

“Well, you’re an adult now. You can… make your own decisions, I guess. It’s just, Spike, he’s—not good for you. For anyone.”

“Okay, I appreciate you saving my ass and all? But that doesn’t mean you own it.”

“Connor…”

“You can’t tell me who to date and who not to date.”

“You don’t know him like I do. He’s selfish, and vindictive, and immature…”

“Geez, Dad, if he’s so terrible then why have you been boning him for the last hundred years?”

“Because I’m as bad as he is!” Angel stood up, nearly knocking over his chair. He walked over to the window, looked out over the lights of the city. “I’m worse.” He wanted to look at Connor’s face, wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder. Instead he stood with his back to his son, rubbing his palm. It felt grimy and cold. “Connor, that night…”

“Dad…”

“…was a mistake…”

“I know…”

“…and it was my fault.” The words tasted foul in his throat. “I was weak, and selfish, and I should never have let you… let _us_…”

“Dad, look at me.”

Angel turned, lifted his eyes off the floor. Connor’s face was open like the sky. “I’m not looking to go there again,” he said. “And yeah, it’s a little weird, and I’m not gonna be bragging to my college buddies about it. I don’t go around telling people my secret identity, either. Doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of it.”

“I am,” Angel whispered. “Of myself.”

Connor nodded. “I get that. But—I’m okay with it. Really. And you don’t have to worry about me and Spike, either. I mean, yeah, he’s cool and all—or—hot—” Angel put his hands over his eyes, “but we’re just, you know, having fun. Besides, I think his heart’s—kinda somewhere else.”

Angel peeked through his fingers. “Really?”

“Yeah. He’s hung up on some big, dumb lug who—carries the weight of the world and is emotionally retarded and convinced that he deserves to spend the rest of his life alone and miserable.” Connor took a breath and smiled. “Kinda like him.” 

*

Spike tracked Eve and Lindsey to their hotel, a new one near Park Avenue. Ceramic tile in the fountain, hardwood flooring in the hallways, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. Eve must have swindled a nice little stash out of her former bosses before they fired her.

He broke into their suite easily, found them tangled together on the bed. Not undressed yet, thank Christ.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Eve yelled. “How did you get in?”

“Public accommodation. They welcome all types here.” Spike looked around the room, three times the size of Connor’s flat. “Nice digs. Have to book a suite next time I’m in town.”

“Get. Out.” Eve gritted. Lindsey got up off the bed and swung his fist at Spike’s face. Spike caught it in one hand, pushed him back down. Lindsey bounced back onto the mattress, flat on his back.

“Funny thing about getting zapped in the head with an electric elephant prod,” Spike said, strolling about the room, hands in his coat pocket. “Hurts like a son of a bitch. Could really do a fella harm with one of those.” He looked at Lindsey. “Thinking I might file a lawsuit for punitive damages.”

Lindsey sneered at him. “Wolfram &amp; Hart’s out of business. I don’t think the new owner’s gonna be in any hurry to compensate you.”

“You’re a lawyer, Lindsey,” he went on. “I need some legal advice. See, I got this friend, who’s got this contract. Protects him from death and all physical harm, from your former bosses or anyone working for them. Seems to me getting electrocuted qualifies as physical harm.”

Lindsey shifted on the bed. “I haven’t seen the contract. Maybe it—”

“Then there’s the fact that Connor had a nice shiner on his face when I first got here,” Spike cut in. “Seems like pretty clear evidence, right there. Those demons couldn’t have been working for the evil empire. Must’a been working for someone else. So I asked myself—who had the most to gain out of all this—” he turned towards Eve— “and _wasn’t_ working for Wolfram &amp; Hart?”

Eve stood up on one side of the bed. Lindsey stood up on the other. “So. Now what? You run back to tell Angel?”

Spike tilted his head. Grinned.

They both approached him, circling like vultures, one on either side. “You’re not leaving this room,” Eve said, her face a threat.

Spike fluttered his eyelashes at her. “Threesome, then? Well, I’m flattered.” His smile melted into his fangs. “But you’re really not my type.” 

*

 Angel dozed lightly on Connor’s couch, a soft, quiet sleep free from nightmares. He woke to the sound of Spike creeping in through the door. Connor was still on the bed, reading his comic book.

“Hey,” Angel said, sitting up.

“Hey,” Spike nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

Connor cleared his throat. Ran a hand through his hair, which was standing up as if it were stuck to a balloon. “Uh, look,” he said, throwing back the covers. “I’m starving, and I’m pretty sure I smell. I’m gonna take a shower and go get something to eat.” He got up out of bed, dug a robe out of the closet and headed for the bathroom.

Angel got up off the couch. “So.”

Spike shoved his hands in his pockets. “So.”

Spike looked out the window. Angel looked at the floor.

“So, I’m gonna call the charter company later,” Angel said finally. “See if I can book a plane back to L.A. next week.”

Spike nodded. “Yeah, be good for you to stick around for a bit. Spend some time with the lad.”

“It’s a nice plane,” Angel continued. “You’ll like it. No necro-tempered glass or anything, but we can keep the shades pulled down. Better than flying in a box.”

“Yeah, about that…” Spike studied his feet. “I’ve been thinking I might stay out here for a bit longer.”

“Oh.” Angel watched the top of Spike’s head. “How much longer?”

Spike shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Indefinitely.”

“Because of Connor?” Angel’s voice sounded squeaky in his ears.

“Nah,” Spike shook his head. “Boy’s got his own life. College, girls. Prob’ly a family someday. I gotta find my own gig.”

“You have a gig,” Angel said, puzzled. “Back in L.A. with me.”

“Time for a change, innit?” Spike shrugged. “Illyria shed her skin. Thinking it’s about time for me to do the same.”

“Well—you could do that back in L.A. Maybe this time you can make it more than skin-deep.”

Spike’s face bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that maybe you—maybe _we_—could start doing things differently.”

He scoffed. “Come on, Angel. Things are the way they are. Have been for a long time. Never gonna be all posies and poetry between us.”

“Maybe it could be.” Angel shuffled his feet. “I mean, not _posies_, exactly. But, I did always like your poems.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “So, you want me to, what? Start writing poems in your honor? ‘Ode to a Caveman Brow?’ ”

“Christ, no.” Angel sighed, exasperated. “Just—maybe we could stop _digging_ at each other every minute of the day. The constant fighting, the bickering…”

“Angel, with you and me, that’s called foreplay.”

“Yeah, and there’s that, too. That last night, before you left—” Angel stepped towards Spike, reached out a hand. “It was different. It was—” he ran a finger down Spike’s arm, and Spike’s whole body stiffened. “It was nice,” he said. “Maybe we could—be like that—more often.”

“Why you talking like this?” Spike was looking at him as if he were a snake charmer, or maybe a politician. Angel dropped his hand and sighed.

“Christ, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I think you’d better.”

“I want you to come home. Back to L.A. With me.”

“Why?” Spike repeated, his voice like thorns under Angel’s skin.

“Because I…” Angel waved a hand helplessly.

“You what?”

“You know what! Dammit Spike, you know how I feel about you. Even you aren’t that stupid.”

Spike’s face clouded over like an eclipse of the sun. He jabbed a finger in Angel’s direction. “Don’t,” he growled.

Angel’s fingers curled around Spike’s wrist, trying to gentle him. He felt the muscles constrict and bunch beneath his hand. “Spike, you know that I—”

“No!” Spike yanked his arm away, “just fucking _don’t_!” and punctuated the word with a fist, square in the middle of Angel’s face. Angel flew back and landed on his ass. “Don’t you dare try to make out like you give a shit, when we both know you never…” He broke off and began to pace. Angel rubbed his nose.

Spike put his arms up in front of him, a boxer cornered in the ring. “Not since the day Dru dragged me home. Never had anyone who…”

Angel pushed himself to his feet. He stepped towards Spike, gentle and strange. Took hold of his arms and tugged them away from his face. “You do now.”

When Spike looked at him, his eyes were wild. Rabbits and children, and every human Angel had ever killed.

He shook free of Angel’s grip, spun around and ran. 

*

Angel tracked him to a 12-storey rooftop on 110th Street. The outside fire escape made for a noisy climb. By the time he reached the top, Spike was already looking in his direction.

“Surprised you didn’t bolt when you heard me coming,” Angel said, looking at the clanking metal steps behind him.

“Nearly did,” Spike replied. He was sitting on a low brick wall that ran around the edge of the roof. “Figured you’d just keep chasing me all night, and I don’t feature playing Spiderman for the rest of the evening. Look bloody silly in tights.” He pulled out a smoke and lit up. “Surprised you came, really. Not like the great Angelus to go chasing after a bit of tail.”

Angel strolled towards Spike, sat down beside him. He looked out over the city, to the glowing windows of St. John the Divine, the dark expanse of Central Park. “People change,” he said. Spike handed him the cigarette, and Angel took a drag.

“S’pose they do,” Spike nodded. “Sometimes not enough, though.” He looked at the tarred roof beneath his feet. “I killed them both, Angel.”

“Who?”

“Lindsey and Eve.”

Angel took another puff, unsurprised. “What’d they do?”

“They were behind the whole thing. Kidnapping Connor, duping that stock broker, making a deal with Illyria to kill the Senior Partners. All of it.”

Angel’s muscles stiffened, and his fingers tightened so hard around the cigarette that it snuffed itself out. “Fucking vipers,” he ground out. “If Lindsey comes back from the dead again this time, I’m gonna chop off more than just his hand.”

Spike shook his head. “Doubt her god-king-ness will be in any hurry to resurrect them. She’s got bigger plans, I imagine.”

Angel turned towards Spike. Rested his hand along Spike’s back. “I’d have killed them, too, if I’d known. You did what you had to do, Spike.”

“Know that. It’s just…” he sighed. “One thing being a champion. Something else being…”

“Human?”

Spike nodded. “I’m not all full of goodness and light, Angel. Not warm, or soft or any of the things you love. I look at people like Connor, and—” he broke off, and Angel knew he was seeing a girl with shining eyes and golden hair. “People like that, you can’t help but love them. You look at them, and you see their hearts.”

Angel chuckled. “Spike, no one’s heart is more visible than yours. You can practically see it from space. You love more fiercely than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“I hurt the people I love, Angel,” he said, voice full of old wounds. “And so do you.”

Angel’s hand drew away from Spike’s back. “You don’t trust me.”

“Trust you with my life,” Spike answered. “Just… not sure I trust you with my heart.”

Angel reached up, gently touched the brand on Spike’s chest. The flesh felt soft and warm beneath his fingers, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I trust you with mine.”

Spike looked up at him, finally, and a light crossed his face; soft as candles, warm as hearth fires. He felt as if Spike were seeing him for the first time, eyes glowing blue under the night sky; like newborn stars.

“Feels weird,” he said. “Talking about our feelings like a real couple.” Spike ducked his head. Smiled, shy as a maiden being courted by her first suitor. Angel’s face broke out into a jack-o-lantern grin.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” he said. “I mean, I always knew you were the woman in this relationship.”

Spike looked up at him and huffed. “Please. Darla had more balls than you. You cried at the bloody ballet.”

“It was _Gisele_,” Angel insisted.

“It was froofy.”

“It’s their signature piece!”

“_And_ you like Sinatra.”

“Oh, like Sid Vicious is so tough. Frank could have snapped him in half with one punch.”

“Frank was even skinnier than me. Reason he hung out with the mob was for protection, so’s he wouldn’t get pounded.”

“At least he could carry a tune. Not like Sid’s thrash version of ‘My Way.’ ”

“That was his finest moment! Not like the poor sod could actually play worth a damn.”

“It’s so cute the way you crush on him.”

“Hey!” Spike pointed a finger at him. “I’m no bloody girl.”

Angel folded his arms and looked straight ahead. “Fine. You’re a real man’s man. I’ll get you a piece of straw to chew on.”

Spike nodded. “Bloody John Wayne, I am.”

Angel smirked. “Or Ennis del Mar.”

Spike’s head whipped around. “What?”

Angel leaned in towards him, his voice twisting into a perfect drawl. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” he said, then planted a hard kiss on Spike’s lips.

Spike growled and shoved him off. Angel slid down onto the roof, laughing. 

*

Connor drove them to the airport, borrowing his mother’s car. Angel hugged the boy goodbye, and Spike thought he’d never let go.

Spike yanked on Angel’s arm. “Come on, you’re embarrassing the lad.”

Angel finally pulled away, but couldn’t resist ruffling the kid’s hair. Connor rolled his eyes.

“I’d give you a hug, too,” Connor winked at Spike, “but I get the feeling your boyfriend’s the jealous type.”

Spike snorted.

They slept the whole flight back to L.A. When they reached the Hyperion, Angel headed for a shower. Spike undressed, turned down the covers and lit candles all around the room.

When Angel emerged from the bathroom, his skin glowed in the soft light. Christ, he was so fucking beautiful, it made Spike’s chest ache.

“What’s all this?” Angel smiled, dropping his wet towel to the floor.

Spike walked towards him, reached up a hand to touch the side of Angel’s face. “Me trusting you,” he said, his voice a promise.

Angel closed his eyes, leaned into the touch. His forehead came down to rest against Spike’s, and he imagined he could feel Angel’s breath, ghosting over his skin.

“Spike, I—” Angel whispered.

Spike shook his head, laid his fingers along Angel’s lips. “Don’t say it,” he whispered back. “Just show me.”

Angel nodded, slowly, and took Spike’s face in both hands. He pressed his lips against Spike’s, soft and warm, full of light and life and (love)

Their arms wrapped around each other and they fumbled their way to the bed, both blind from the kissing. They thudded onto the mattress, Angel on top of Spike, bodies pressing tight together. Angel’s weight was heavy and comforting, his hands smoothing over Spike’s upper arms, his shoulders, throat. Their cocks pressed together and Spike moaned, the need sparking all through him. Fire licked through his belly, up and out to the palms of his hands. Angel’s mouth moved along the side of Spike’s neck, sliding down to the place where it met his shoulder, licking and nuzzling there. Spike’s whole body shivered.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Angel—”

“Shhh,” Angel said, pulling back. “Let me look at you.”

He leaned back, and Spike lay still on the bed, eyes wide, shifting away from Angel’s steady gaze. Memories tremored through his skin, calloused and knife-edged, but there was no laughter in Angel’s eyes now. Only wonder.

He reached out a hand to touch Spike’s cheek, up near his eyes. “So pretty,” he murmured. The hand moved down, thumb caressing Spike’s lower lip. “So fucking pretty.”

Spike’s tongue reached out to capture the thumb, sucking it into his mouth. Angel’s eyes shuddered closed. “Christ, I love your mouth, Will. Did I ever tell you that?”

Spike answered him with a playful smirk. “Think you might have, once or twice.”

Angel leaned back down, kissed him again. “So much else I never told you.” His hands traveled down, caressing Spike’s belly, and the muscles jumped alive under his touch. “How I love the way your body responds to me.” His hand slid lower, wrapping warm fingers around Spike’s dick. Angel grinned into Spike’s eyes. “What a pretty cock you have.”

Spike’s tongue flicked out of his mouth. “You like my cock?”

Angel’s eyes sparkled. “Want me to show you?”

Spike nodded, and Angel slid his face down Spike’s body, capturing Spike’s dick in his mouth. Spike cried out, arched up off the bed. Angel’s big hands wrapped around his hips, holding him down, holding him still. Spike obeyed the hands, reached up and wrapped his fists around the rungs of the headboard to keep himself from flying apart. Angel’s mouth was like silk, like worship and holy things. His tongue caressed the underside of Spike’s cock, making it quiver, making his body quake with the effort to stay still. He wanted to hold on, wanted to lay back and let Angel pleasure him for hours, but he needed to move. Wanted Angel to move with him.

“Jesus—Da—stop, please—”

Angel slid his mouth off Spike’s cock and crawled up his body. He caressed Spike’s cheek with the tip of his nose. “Too early for begging,” Angel murmured, and his voice shimmered up Spike’s back, crackling and fizzing along his limbs.

There was oil on the bedside table, warming under the candlelight, smelling of the old scents—incense and oak and the petals of black roses. Angel massaged the oil into Spike’s skin, caressing his throat, down to his belly, up under the backs of his knees. Spike closed his eyes and let the caress carry him. Hands that could mark and bruise, strong enough to tear his flesh, now knit him together into something new and bright and shining. The fingers thrummed through him everywhere, his muscles arching into the touch, silkening and coloring with life. Angel laid his whole body down against Spike’s skin, touching him everywhere, pliant and warm and heavy with surrender.

When Angel sank into him, it felt to Spike like coming home—a home that had been waiting for him for more than a hundred years. Angel’s thrusts were slow and gentle, a rhythmic, rocking cradle. Spike felt the burn consuming him from the inside out, fire licking out from his center to his limbs. Angel’s hands seemed to follow the fire, sliding up Spike’s body as he pushed deeper inside, spreading his arms wide across the mattress, holding his hands down, fingers entwined.

“Christ. Will—”

He pushed harder, thrust faster, and Spike stretched his body wider—arms, legs—letting Angel take all he had to give. It wasn’t enough. “Touch me,” Spike whispered, “please…”

Angel’s hands let go of his, fingers moving down to tug on Spike’s cock. Spike’s back arched and his eyes closed, but Angel’s other hand tangled in his hair, tilting his head towards him, thumbing his eyes open.

“Do you believe me?” Angel asked, his eyes soft and bright. Spike nodded, afraid to speak. “Then let me tell you.”

It was too much. Spike closed his eyes, shook his head no.

“Spike, please—” Angel begged, but Spike stopped his mouth with a kiss.

“I love you,” Spike whispered against Angel’s lips, and their bodies surged forward together. “Angel—”

He felt Angel letting go inside him, and Spike was lifted, borne away, and the candlelight filled the space around them in a white-hot living glow. 

*

Hours later, Spike sat on the roof, looking at the sky. Angel had dressed and gone out, leaving Spike alone in the hotel. It was quiet without Blue here, and he looked up into the night, wondering where her new kingdom lay. How long it would be before she tried to make a new one.

“Nice night,” came Angel’s voice from behind him. Spike smiled.

“Nice as it ever gets, in this city. Can’t see the stars.”

Angel walked towards him. “Not like back in the day, is it?”

“Nope.” Spike shook his head, still looking at the sky. “But some things are better.”

Angel nodded, sat down beside him. “Yeah,” he said. “They are.”

Spike looked at him. “Hey, you seen my lighter? Came up here for a smoke, but it wasn’t in my pocket.”

Angel reached into his own pocket, pulled it out and handed it to him. “I palmed it when you weren’t looking.”

Spike made a face at him. “You wanted a smoke, all you had to do was ask me.” He took the lighter from Angel, the metal casing rough and unfamiliar beneath his fingers. “What’s this, then?” he asked, turning it over in his hands to examine it.

Angel smiled. “Just something I had done while I was out.”

Spike looked at the side of the lighter, now engraved with a 19th-century script. It read, “I love you. Angel.”

He looked at Angel and smiled, wide enough to light the sky. Angel nodded, took Spike’s hand in his, and together they looked out over the lights of L.A.

Somewhere above them, in a stellar nursery thousands of light years wide, a new star was being born.


End file.
